


i'm dyin' (oh santa fe...)

by nighting_gale17



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, New to the Fandom, i have a lot of thoughts about this scene, if that wasn't obvious, lots of comfort, santa fe is a metaphor, vague suicidal references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighting_gale17/pseuds/nighting_gale17
Summary: Events happen a little differently in the back of Miss Medda's theatre on that fateful night.
Relationships: Crutchie & Jack Kelly, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	i'm dyin' (oh santa fe...)

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the firefam for encouraging my newest hyperfixation, yall are real ones
> 
> also come say hi to me on tumblr @nighting-gale17

Painting was the only thing he could do right now.

His eyes stayed fastened on the swirling colors gently brushed across the canvas, losing himself in the art. It calmed his racing mind and pounding heart better than anything or anyone else would have been able to even try (that was a lie—soft pink lips, firm hands, lean body… but he couldn’t). If he stopped, if he let his brain think too much, then all he would think about was how helpless he was and how there wasn’t anything he could do to help Crutchie, or the rest of the newsies, and those kids—

Like he said. If he painted, he didn’t think.

Jack let out a frustrated huff and stepped back from the canvas, eyeing his work critically. It was coming along alright, he supposed, though he might’ve been a little too generous with the purple. If he added some pink, though, it would set it off nicely with the sunset in the background…

Hours were lost to him as he painted in the back of Miss Medda’s theatre. The splatters of paint on his skin distracted from the still aching bruises from the fight. Each careful stroke of the brush across the canvas silenced any thought that tried to form in his mind. It was therapeutic, in a way, he supposed. It gave him control over something when he had never felt more helpless in his life and he enjoyed the way his body began to relax as he lost himself in his work.

“Jack? Postage for Jack Kelly?”

Jack momentarily zoned back into the rest of the world, glancing over his shoulder at the young postage boy that had walked into the back of the theatre. “Yeah, that’d be me,” he said, putting his paintbrush back in the paint cup and reaching out to the boy. “Thanks.”

The boy nodded and waved as he handed him the letter and then took off.

Jack frowned down at the letter, feeling dread start to build up in the pit of his stomach as he looked at it. His name was scrawled across the top is messy, shaky handwriting—chicken-scratch, he had used to tease Crutchie—but it was the smeared bloodstain on the edge that caught his attention.

_Dear Jack,_

_Greetings from the Refuge. How are you? I’m okay. Guess I wasn’t much help yesterday. Snyder soaked me real good with my crutch. Oh, yeah, Jack, this is Crutchie, by the way. These here guards, they is rude. They say jump, boy, you jump or you’re screwed. But the food ain’t so bad, least so far, ‘cause so far they ain’t brung us no food. Ha. Ha._

_I miss the rooftop. Sleepin’ right out in the open, in your penthouse in the sky. There’s a cool breeze blowin’ even in July. Anyway, so, guess what? There’s a secret escape plan I got. Tie a sheet to the bed, toss the end out the window, climb down, then take off like a shot! Maybe though, not tonight. I ain’t slept and my leg still ain’t right. Hey, but Pulitzer, he’s goin’ down! And then, Jack, I was thinking we might just go like you was saying. Where it’s clean, and green and pretty, with no buildings in your way, and you’re ridin’ palominos every day. Once that train makes—_

_Damn this place. I’ll be fine, Jack, good as new. But there’s one thing I need you to do. On the rooftop, you said, that a family looks out for each other. So you tell all the fellas for me to protect one another._

_The end._

~~_Your friend,_ ~~

~~_Your best friend._ ~~

_Your brother,_

_Crutchie_

God damnit.

Jack took a deep breath as he carefully folded up Crutchie’s letter with shaky hands. Somehow, the letter hit his heart almost as hard as it did when he tried to go see him last night. The bloody and bruised up silhouette of him in the dark, curled up on the top bunk just trying to breathe through the pain—

He couldn’t even make it to the _window_.

And it was all Jack’s fault. He never should have tried to kid himself that he could do something that would help the people he loved—it always backfired on him. Apparently, his parents and siblings hadn't been enough proof of that. Tears burned in his eyes and he sniffed, blinking them away and wiping at his cheeks with his hand. Crutchie might die in that—that awful place, and Jack couldn’t do a single damned thing about it.

“Jack?”

Jack quickly shoved the letter into his apron pocket, quickly brushing the back of his hand over his cheeks to get rid of any tears. He glanced up slightly from the corner of his eye as Miss Medda approached him, keeping most of his attention to the ground.

“Here’s everything I owe you for the first backdrop.” She told him, holding out a pink envelope with a gentle smile on her face. She turned and gestured toward the backdrop he was currently working on, a soft look of awe on her face that he never was able to understand. “Plus this one. And even a little something extra,” Miss Medda continued, turning back to him with that same smile. “Just account’a because I’m gonna miss you so.”

“Miss Medda,” Jack protested. “I—”

“Jack.” Miss Medda cut him off, a vaguely disappointed look on her face as if he was doing something wrong by refusing to take her payment. She held out the pink envelope to him again expectantly.

He took it from her slowly, unable to meet her eyes as his fingers slid over the fine, pink parchment. “You’re a gem,” he said when he was finally able to speak past the lump of emotion in his throat, giving her a strained smile.

“Just tell me you’re goin’ somewhere,” Miss Medda sighed softly as Jack dropped the envelope in his apron pocket. “not running away.”

Jack lifted his eyes up to glance at her and then scoffed. “Does it matter?” He brushed past her, his eyes lingering on his almost finished painting. He told everyone it was of Santa Fe—of somewhere nicer, far, far away from the claustrophobic presence of New York. And it wasn’t a lie. But the way he planned on getting there—well, money wasn’t going to help him get there. He just wished he had the courage to finally take the dive and leave this dump behind.

“When you go somewhere and it turns out not to be the right place, you can always go somewhere else.” Miss Medda was continuing, pulling Jack out of his thoughts. “But if you’re running away, nowhere is ever the right place.” She walked up toward him, putting her hand on his shoulder and squeezing it comfortingly.

Jack dropped his gaze and averted his eyes, trying not to show just how much of Miss Medda’s words struck. He knew she was right. He knew he was running away, like a coward, but it was all he wanted to do, as selfish as it is. Wanted to run away to Santa Fe, where he could be free of hunger, pain, the misery of everything in this awful—

“Jack! How ‘bout lettin’ a pal know you’re alive?”

Jack’s head jerked up so fast his neck protested the action, making him wince as the ache from his injuries made themselves known again. Davey was there (of course he was, he never should have shown him this place) on the catwalk, staring down at him with that infatuating grin before bolting away.

“Why don’t I leave you with your friend?” Miss Medda said, a knowing look on her face as she patted his cheek gently and walked away.

“Where did you go?” Davey asked as he rounded the corner, almost out of breath. “We couldn’t find ya!”

“You ever think I didn’t wanna be found?” Jack retorted, bitterness coating his words as he walked forward and grabbed one of his paintbrushes out of the cup, intent on finishing what he started. And maybe if he ignored him, Davey would get the hint and leave him alone. Though, a tiny part of him hoped he might stay.

“Hey, is that a real place?” Davey asked suddenly, gesturing with the newspaper he was holding in his hand to the backdrop Jack was currently painting. “That Santa Fe?”

Jack ignored him, trying ti hide the way his heart race ticked up at the thought by bending his head and dipping his paintbrush in the soft pink paint. He knew Davey was just talking about the actual Santa Fe, way down there in Mexico where the skies were clear and the stars shone at night. But Jack had stopped thinking about Santa Fe as an actual, physical place a long, long time ago.

“Hey, did you see the papes?” Davey tried again when Jack continued to work on his painting, appearing in the corner of Jack’s eye and waving the paper in his hand around. “We are front-page news, above the fold!” He unfolded the paper, practically shoving it under Jack’s nose. “Oh, yes. Above. The fold.”

Davey grinned at him as Jack looked up, barely giving the paper a glance as he forced Davey backward so he could reach the other side of his painting. “Good for you,” he muttered before ducking his head down to focus on the strokes of the brush across the canvas.

“Everyone wants to meet the famous Jack Kelly!” Davey went on, brushing his hand across Jack’s shoulder and leaving goosebumps in his wake. He paced across the floor behind Jack, his footsteps an annoying distraction from his painting. “Even Spot Conlon sent over a kid just to say, ‘Next event, you can count on Brooklyn.’ How about that?”

Jack let out a frustrated breath, glancing over at Davey before he returned to swap out his paintbrush. “We got stomped into the ground.”

“Yeah, they got us this time. I’ll grant you that.” Davey acknowledged, though there was a tone of confusion in his voice. “But we took round one, and with press like this, our fight is far from over.”

“Every newsie who could walk was out there this morning, selling papes like the strike never even happened.” Jack shot back, finally turning in his squatted position to level Davey with a frustrated look. He rose back to his feet, intent on getting back to his painting and just wishing Davey would get the hint and go away.

“And I was right out there with them,” Davey said hurriedly, putting his hand out and forcing Jack to stay in place. “If I don't sell papes, my folks don’t eat.”

“Save your breath.” Jack snapped, his irritation finally getting the best of him. “I get it. It’s hopeless.”

“But then I saw this look on Wiesel’s face!” Davey continued, spinning on his heel as Jack brushed past him to return to his painting. “He was actually nervous and I realized this isn’t over. We got ‘em worried. Really worried.” Davey’s finger gently pressed on the underside of Jack’s jaw and forced his head up to look at him and his way too earnest expression. “And I walked away. Lots of other kids did too. And that is what you call a beginning.”

Jack held his gaze, forgetting for a second how to breathe as he looked into those wide brown eyes. He didn't realize it before, but there was an underlying concern in his eyes for him as well, mostly hidden by his excitement and hope over the strike. But it was still there. And damn, if Jack couldn't ever remember the last time someone other than Miss Medda or Crutchie looked at him with worry like that.

The finger under his jaw brushed up his cheekbone, brushing lightly against the skin and drawing a shuddering breath out of Jack. The soft fingers, those of a well-learned man, a contrast to the abused, rough callouses Jack had, slowly stroked over the skin. Davey’s eyes were soft and bright as he opened his mouth to say something, but then the moment was broken by the too loud, high pitched sound of a child.

“There he is, just like I said!”

Jack looked over his shoulder and scowled, glaring up at the catwalk where Davey’s little brother was pointing at him with Katherine at his side. “For cryin’ out loud,” He growled, standing on his feet and clutching his paintbrush tighter in his hand as he stormed over to where the rest of his paints were. “Where’s a fella gotta go to get away from you people?”

“There’s no escapin’ us, pal.” Davey followed him, voice slightly teasing, their moment forgotten. “We’re inevitable.”

Jack thinks of Santa Fe a little more wistfully. He ignored the three of them as they chattered off to the side, trying his hardest to escape back into that numbing, silent place painting always gave him refuge in. But, of course, this was practically impossible considering the tension in his shoulders from the presence of the others. He just wanted to be _alone_. Why wouldn’t they just go away?

He turned back to his paints as he ran out of the blues, once again wishing for one of those nice, small palettes to keep his paints on. He spotted Katherine slowly walking towards him and gave her a glance as he headed towards his paints. “Word is, you wrote a great story.”

“Hey, you look like hell,” Katherine said, a deep frown on her face as she walked toward him. Jack saw her raise her hand from the corner of his eye as he bent forward to get his paints, felt himself tensing slightly at the thought of her touch, but thankfully, she seemed to think twice about it and dropped her hand.

“Hey, Jack, where’s that supposed to be?” Les piped up, bouncing on top of a box of his painting supplies and making Jack grimace.

“It’s Santa Fe,” Davey answered for him when Jack refused to speak, busying himself with the paints by his feet.

“Oh, I gotta tell you, Jack. This, ‘Go West, young man!’ routine is getting tired.” Katherine told him, eyeing his painting critically when he sat up and glared at her.

“Tired?” Jack echoed, standing back on to his feet with a sour taste in his mouth. “Tired? Ya know, for a blacklisted reporter, you sure got a lot of nerve sayin’ stuff you don’t kno’ nothin’ about.”

“How did you know I got blacklisted?” Katherine frowned, further irritating Jack with just how unfazed she seemed to be by his comments.

“I ain’t an idiot.” he snapped. “Despite what you might think.”

“Can we table the palaver and get back to business?” Les interrupted, exasperation in his voice in a way only a child as young as Les could achieve. “Will Medda let us have the theater?”

“It’s what I been tryin’ to tell ya!” Davey left his brother’s side, walking up to Jack with that all-too earnest look on his face again. “We wanna hold a rally, a citywide meeting where every newsie gets a say and a vote. And we do it after working hours so no one loses a day’s pay. Smart?”

Jack looked up at that earnest face and had to look away. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Smart enough to get you committed to a padded room.”

“The guy who paints places he’s never seen is calling us crazy?” Katherine scoffed, gesturing towards his unfinished backdrop.

Jack froze at her words, anger boiling through his veins so violently he had to take a deep breath before he started to speak. “You wanna see a place I seen, huh?” he asked, glaring at her as he brushed past Davey and threw his paintbrushes onto the ground. The violent clatter caused Katherine to flinch, startled, but Jack couldn’t bring himself to care, couldn’t think past the anger and hate and guilt mixing together in his chest. “How about this?” He marched towards the backdrop and shoved it around, turning it so the sketch he’d drawn on the other side was visible.

It was nothing but harsh black strokes, drawn when he first got here and he needed an outlet for the anger and fear writhing through his veins, demanding to be released. The faceless newsies—just children, they were only kids—being stomped on, crushed, by the Pulitzer giant.

“Newsie Square, thanks to my big mouth, filled to overflowing with failure.” he spat the words out like they were poison, that familiar anger swirling in his chest every time he looked at the cartoon. “Kids hurt! Others arrested!”

“Lighten up. No one died.” Davey snapped at him.

Jack turned to face him, shocked, unable to believe what he had just said. “Oh, is that what you’re aimin’ for?” As he spoke, he could already tell that Davey was regretting his words but Jack was past the point of caring. “No, no, go on!” he shouted, waving his hand in the air. “Call me a coward! You call me a quitter. Ain’t no way I’m puttin’ them, kids, back in danger.”

“We’re doing something that's never been done before!” Davey shot back desperately. “How could that not be dangerous?”

Jack wanted to scream. Why didn’t Davey and Katherine understand that there were real consequences to what they were doing? That there were things worse than death that could be forced on them. He worked his jaw, taking a deep breath before he spoke, his voice quieter now. “Specs brung me a note from Crutchie at the Refuge. I tried to go see him last night. I went up the fire escape. They busted him up so bad, he couldn’t even come to the window.” He squeezed his eyes shut as the vision of Crutchie’s bloodied silhouette on that bed flashed in his head. “Now what if he don’t make it, huh?” he asked tearfully, opening his eyes back up, uncaring of the shine he knew they had. He pointed accusingly with a shaking hand at Davey as the other boy looked away. “Are you—Are you willin’ to shoulder that? For what, half a penny a pape?”

“It’s not about pennies, Jack!” Davey yelled, his face starting to turn red from a mixture of frustration and something else in his eyes. “You said it yourself.” he lowered his voice as he walked closer to Jack, who only turned away and wiped at his face with his hand. “My family wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in if my father had a union. This is a fight we have to win!”

“If I wanted a sermon, I would show up to church.” Jack snarled, stepping forward and getting into Davey’s face until they were only a breath apart. “None of you get it! The consequences of continuing this fight are greater than any reward that could come out of it.”

“Jack, you’re being ridiculous.” Katherine tried to start, but Jack cut her off with a glare.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.” He scowled, the anger still simmering in his veins. “None of you do! You all came from nice, stable families—still got a mam and pops you can go runnin’ home to. Well not all of us got somethin’ that nice! Some of us learned about the real world a lot sooner!” he shouted.

Silence met his words and Jack forced himself to take a step back, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Yeah, those kids might not have _died_. But they were taken to the Refuge. And I doubt there’s a hell worse than that place.”

“Jack, please—” Davey tried again.

“No!” Jack snapped, lifting his gaze to glare at the other man, ignoring the hurt shining in those eyes. “Those kids are in there because of me. Crutchie, is in there because’a me, and he might be dying. Yous can do whatever ya want. But leave me outta’ it.”

He walked past Davey, intent on finishing his painting for Miss Medda like he had promised and then getting the hell out of there to figure out how to save Crutchie. But Davey grabbed a hold of his arm before he could walk past, his grip tight on his bicep. “Jack.” he said quietly, but Jack refused to look up. “What happened at the Refuge to you?”

Jack felt his entire body stiffen at the question. Flashes of pain and beatings and crying brothers and sisters flipped through his mind. He bit the inside of his cheek long enough until he tasted blood before he spoke. “That ain’t got nothin’ to do with you.” He ripped his arm from Davey’s grip, ignoring the way he immediately longed for the touch after it was gone.

Davey was still yelling his name, desperately, lost in the cacophony of voices as Katherine and Les’ joined in with him. But Jack ignored them, taking off away from the theatre. He didn’t know where he was going. All he knew was he needed out. He needed a plan, he needed to rescue Crutchie.

Santa Fe… One day…

**Author's Note:**

> so... i kind of got sucked into this fandom Real fast. I have very strong thoughts about this particular scene in the musical, as well as one or two others, if thats not obvious lmao. Anyway, hope yall enjoyed my little rendition of this, it was super fun to write. The next chapter is gonna go waaaaaay off canon, but, well, it should be interesting!!!! (if it hasn't been noted in my previous fics, i have a tendency to make things sad)


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